


i'll see you again was the last thing you said to me

by katyfaise



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Established Relationship, Gen, Multi, OT3, its not graphic though dont worry, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-10-06
Packaged: 2018-04-23 15:26:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4882006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katyfaise/pseuds/katyfaise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s the loud crashing of what sounds like a television and yelling in broken English and very direct Russian that gives the entire headquarters all the confirmation that they need.</p>
<p>Agent Gaby Teller is compromised. And she has been caught.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Capture

**Author's Note:**

> first part of a three-part series.  
> the beginning. the during. the after.  
> i love putting fictional characters through shit when i'm in a dark place in my life.  
> the violence isn't going to get too graphic guys so don't worry  
> i dont like describing it myself, but if it gets too far i'll stick a warning on it  
> please alert me to any mistakes and i will fix them

The tape comes in an unimportant package, hand-delivered to Waverly amongst his other morning deliveries. 

The gossip spreads quicker, thanks to a newly hired secretary that runs from the office shocked and spilling the story to anyone in the ladies room within listening distance. 

Captured. Tortured. No way to escape. 

It’s all rumor. No confirmation. The secretary isn’t even let go.

It’s the loud crashing of what sounds like a television and yelling in broken English and very direct Russian that gives the entire headquarters all the confirmation that they need.

Agent Gaby Teller is compromised. And she has been caught.

—

“We never should have let her go by herself.”

“And who would have stopped her, hm?” Napoleon is trying his very best to be the voice of reason because Illya’s fingers are tapping against his leg methodically and given that he’s already destroyed the television in Waverley’s office, somebody needs to keep him under control. “She is very capable.”

“She is being tortured!”

Solo is very aware of this fact. Gaby’s dark eyes stared directly at him through the video as well, strained and full of tears yet no noise left her mouth. She wouldn’t give the captors that satisfaction. Gaby had been trained well and he was infinitely proud. There isn’t much that breaks his facade, but his color is pale now and there’s a sheen of sweat across his forehead. It’s much harder to keep his composure in this situation “Are there any demands?” he asks, attention turning from Illya to Waverly.

“A trade. Agent for a prisoner,” he explains. “The political defector from Finland under our… careful care is clearly wanted back.”

“We make trade,” Illya says immediately and stands.

“Now wait, Kuryakin.”

“We make trade.” Illya repeats himself slowly, turning to face Waverly and Solo both. “Do you disagree?” His question is focused directly to Napoleon. 

Solo and Waverly trade looks before Napoleon straightens his jacket and motions toward the door. “We should have a chat.”

There’s no more said as he guides Illya out of the office and away from anything that might be thrown in a rage, particularly toward his head. 

“You disagree?” Illya finally blurts out, the look of shock and disgust on his face one Solo has never seen before. 

“Gaby is a trained agent. A successful agent. Do you think that making a trade with criminals is for the greater good?”

“When have you ever cared about greater good?” 

The question catches Napoleon off guard, if only for a second. He can’t answer, and instead he swallows the silence and places his hands in his pocket with a heavy sigh. “I don’t disagree with you but legally, our hands are tied. You know that.”

Illya nods and seems to contemplate what Solo has said. It’s after a moment that the cogs begin to turn in his mind. “It is good thing you can work outside of the law,” he says, eyes drifting around to make sure there is nobody listening. He turns and stalks away from Solo, leaving the other man standing there with a frown on his face. 

—

Napoleon tries to think of any other time he’s put his own career on the line for someone else. Sure, he’s rescued people before, he’s rescued both Gaby and Illya before, but it’s never come down to a move quite as drastic as this. But Illya is silent beside him in the cockpit of the small plane, and the defector is hogtied and passed out on the floor behind them. 

He has an eight-hour flight to think of any time he’s made such drastic decisions that benefit anyone but himself.

Four hours in and he’s still coming up empty.

“I’m sure she’s fine, Peril,” Napoleon says through the headset. He’s sure that Illya can hear him because the man blinks in response, but his fingers have slowed their tapping. He takes the initiative to reach out and grasp his hand with his own, squeezing gently and sighing with relief when Illya returns the sentiment. Solo doesn’t point out that there is no way of telling how old the video was, that there is no certainty in this decision they’ve made, because he knows Illya has already thought those things ten times over. The only certainty they have is the lengths they’re willing to go for Gaby. 

—

When she opens her eyes, there’s only a light bulb above her that is bright enough to illuminate the small space in her cell. It casts shadows all around and Gaby closes her eyes again to avoid seeing them. It’s so quiet, too quiet for someone who is used to perpetual noise. She tries her best to pretend that the cold wind that violently whips in through cracks in the window belongs to a snoring Illya or a whistling Napoleon.

The thoughts only make her heart ache and her eyes fill with tears.

She had fought so hard to go to Helsinki alone - to finish out this mission on her own because she had worked her ass off. Gaby doesn’t need to prove herself, that much she knows, but she tries to regardless. Perhaps if she had agreed to Solo or Illya accompanying her, despite her inflated ego and sense of pride, maybe she wouldn’t be stuck in a freezing, concrete cell with possible internal bleeding and a black eye that would take a good three months to heal.

Gaby holds tight to the threadbare blanket, no more than a scrap of fabric, and allows herself to cry. She wonders if the video they recorded was for their own records, or if it was sent UNCLE. If Illya and Napoleon saw it and noticed how she never once opened her mouth to their demands. 

She wonders if they are proud of her because she is proud of herself. Gaby was never weak, but she’s stronger now than she has ever been before. And that thought relaxes her into sleep, even if it’s still restless and forced. 

—

The man, Thomas, Illya thinks his name is, wiggles helplessly over his shoulder and groans before he’s dropped to the hard ground. “Hush,” Illya simply instructs, kneeling close to where Napoleon is hidden behind a tree. 

“Are you picking up a signal?”

Napoleon nods, pointing to a faint red dot on the handheld radar. They’re close, because Gaby is finally in range, but there’s a compound full of large buildings that keep them from her. Not to mention the numerous armed guards that are patrolling. Napoleon figures Illya can run through them like a tank, but there always comes a point where a tank runs out of gas. Working outside of UNCLE parameters has left them with little to no supplies than what the both of them could turn up at their respective flats. It’s not much, but it can work if they make it work. 

Illya is already standing to make a move and Napoleon grabs his leg, pulling him back close. 

“You can’t just go running in there like every other time. We have to be careful.”

“I am always careful,” Illya says, jaw set in a tight line. 

“This is Gaby’s life on the line, remember that.” The sudden look of hurt in Illya’s eyes cuts Napoleon deep - Illya has never forgotten that fact. Neither of them have. “Do you remember the plan?”

Illya nods and Solo hands him a black bag, which Illya throws over his back. 

“I will meet you at the staff entrance. Toward the back, remember.” The Russian nods and takes off before he pauses a few feet away. 

“Be careful, Cowboy,” he calls out in a harsh whisper against the winter wind. 

“Always,” Solo replies, sending a mock salute in his direction before he turns his attention to the struggling man on he ground. 

—

The loud explosion wakes Gaby instantly. She’s groggy and her mouth is dry, but she listens intently to the sounds of running and yelling. Another explosion follows, so close to where she is that the concrete shakes. She wipes her eyes and stands, moves close to the window in the cell and she looks out. From her vantage point she sees nothing, but she can hear everything. Men are yelling, directions she thinks, as to what action to take. 

“Have they come for the girl?” she hears and her heart soars. 

“We cannot locate anyone, sir.”

Gaby smirks and turns around, eyes on the bars of the cell. This is the most alive she has felt in the four days she has been trapped. She feels hope. She feels love.

The voice from outside is growing closer and closer and when the familiar man approaches her cell, Gaby only wants to spit. He is short and bald and his eyes remind her of tiny black bugs. 

“Is this your calvary then?” he asks, and Gaby stands still. She is resolute and refuses to be moved. “For your sake, I hope they’ve brought what we asked for.”

Gaby doesn’t know what he means, nor does she want to. When he opens the cell and steps in, her body goes rigid as he grabs her by the arm tightly and leads her out into the cold corridor. She chances one last glance back to the window before she is jerked away. And as the man ties her hands tightly behind her back she can only think one thought - 

She will be the one to kill him.


	2. The Extraction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more bit of violence in this chapter  
> wee bit of description  
> not much don't worry

The sudden explosions surprise Napoleon, despite it being part of the plan. Illya is off in his marked spot, learned from the blueprints of the ground, and he can only trust that the rest of the plan will go off without a hitch. The explosions are simple distractions, and from his vantage point they seem to be going well. Men on the compound are rushing about, trying to locate the source of the damage.  

Too bad they’ll never find the Russian with the bag of C4.

Solo takes advantage of the clusterfuck and grabs the defector roughly. Behind his gag, the man is trying to speak, but Solo tunes it out. There’s no time for the begging, not when his mind is taken up by much more important matters at hand. He drags him alongside as he weaves through the forest, using the trees as cover. When he sees his chance he takes it, moving carefully onto the compound. He’s used to some sort of voice in his ear, be it Illya or Gaby, giving some sort of guidance or witty remark, but for now there is radio silence and it’s slightly unnerving. He makes it to the back entrance without hassle, and hides, waiting for Illya to make an appearance. Napoleon checks his watch once, twice, and another time, because the Russian seems to be taking his time.

It’s just as Napoleon is fed up enough to pick the lock on his own that the high pitched sound of a silencer fills his ears and a body falls in his peripheral. 

“Forget to watch your back?” Illya asks, brow coated with sweat as Solo examines the guard now dead on the ground. 

“That’s what I’ve got you for,” he says sharply before he turns to work on the locked door. It’s simple enough, and he pushes the door open far enough for the two of them to enter into he dark hallway. Illya grabs their hostage onto his shoulder easily and strolls through, leaving Napoleon to watch behind them. With a second thought, he stops to bend over and grab the automatic weapon from the guard.

One can never be too safe.

—

Gaby recognizes the room she’s in - the same one where the camera had been set up in front of her as she was questioned and tortured over and over again. There’s no camera this time, but the row of televisions she faces blink back and forth between camera feeds on the compound. She watches carefully for any sign of Illya or Napoleon, but maybe it’s for the best that she doesn’t see them. 

If she can’t see them then nobody else can as well.

That’s got to be the point.

Or maybe this is all a ruse and it’s not even those two causing the current panic.

The short bald man curses and Gaby turns her attention toward him, anger rising.

She thinks back on every bit of training she has received since officially joining UNCLE. Thankfully the bald man was too distracted when he tied her to the chair - the knots are tight, but they’re easy to manipulate. She remembers Illya dislocating his fingers, able to weave his way out of every knot she could think of, and some Solo used even. It was a lesson she had filed away at the time, sure she would never have to put that knowledge to use. 

She knows better now than to underestimate any piece of advice the two of them have given her.

He’s so distracted that he doesn’t notice the grimace on her face as she dislocates her thumbs and shimmies her hands carefully through the thick ropes. Gaby holds them still, doing all she can to keep up appearances. She knows well to bide her time until the best possible moment of attack. 

—

Illya carefully steps through the hallway, on alert as Napoleon follows behind. They’re both armed, but Illya is too busy carrying a grown man on his shoulder to keep his gun poised for attack. The few guards they come across are taken down by Napoleon, proud of his new acquisition from the dead guard outside. 

They pause at the end of the corridor to check the tracker, and the red light indicating Gaby’s position blinks brighter than before.

“We’re right on top of her,” Solo says, glancing around the corner. There are a pair of double doors and God only knows what inside. 

“They will still kill her, even with hostage,” Illya points out, the statement flat and completely true. Solo simply nods, because he knows that there is nothing ever easy about these sorts of extractions. 

But he stands straight, his chin held high. “Let’s not give them the chance then.”

—

There’s a loud explosion right outside the double doors - the heat and debris so strong they fly open and Gaby feels it on her face. Men file out of the room then at the order of the man in charge, but the only sound from behind the door is gunfire and yelling and a distinctly American accent that makes her heart swell.

“Goddamnit,” the short man curses, waving his own pistol around. 

He takes a step closer, but the world around them falls silent. As the doors swing open, he swoops around behind her, hands on her shoulders and the cold metal of the pistol against her neck.

“That’s wholly unnecessary,” Napoleon says, hands held up in a sense of surrender. It doesn’t nothing to help the man behind her though, as his hands only tighten on her shoulders. She tries to squirm but he keeps her still and it makes the anger inside her swell.

“We brought the prisoner,” Illya continues, tossing the man down to the floor with a grunt. “You said trade.”

“Yes, we did what you said, now we would like our agent back,” Napoleon explains.

“I didn’t say destroy my compound. Kill my men! No, this is unforgivable. She will have to pay!" 

He’s so distracted by his own words that when Gaby lets her hand slip from the binding finally, he doesn’t react. It’s only when she’s rammed her elbow back into his groin that he doubles over, coughing and trying to catch his breath. Gaby drops to the floor immediately, just in case he fires wildly. But whether it’s luck or lack of skill, he doesn’t, and she shoves her leg back, foot connecting with his knee enough to bring the bastard to the ground. She hears a nasty crunch and she feels momentarily proud of herself. She’s turned quickly and knocks the gun from his hand, sliding it away from them before her fists connect to his head with all the strength she can muster. 

It’s Illya that pulls her off of him, that holds her against his chest as she kicks and bites and screams that the bastard deserves to die for what he did to her. 

“He’s still breathing,” she hears Solo say, though she cannot see straight, either because of her anger or the tears that cloud her eyes. 

“Gaby! You have to calm down,” Illya instructs, sitting her down on her feet long enough to hold his hands on her cheeks. She stares up at him then, eyes still wild and body still rigid. She’s used to finding safety in those blue eyes, but she comes up empty and she grows angry all over again. 

Or maybe she was never not angry. 

Maybe now she is hurt. And she isn’t sure if she will ever feel that safety again.

Gaby watches Napoleon haul the man up and she realizes she doesn’t even know his name, nor why this happened at all. He’s tied up and leaned against the wall, slumped over and bloody from the rage she had allowed to come free. Gaby cannot take her eyes off of him as she stands near Illya, nodding and shaking her head with nondescript answers as he questions her. Napoleon is near the monitors, inspecting for any sign of trouble before they make their escape. 

“We need to go now.”

Once they’re out in the hallway, they follow the path back to the exit, stopping in close quarters only once to observe around the corner. When they come to the exit and there’s hushed whispering outside, Illya instructs Napoleon to stay inside while he handles it. It’s while he’s outside that Illya realizes the knife that was secured to his thigh is missing - though it’s easy enough to take down the untrained guards with his hands alone. 

It’s the sound of Napoleon’s hushed, “Gaby, give me the knife,” that really sends him into pause. 

“Solo?” he questions, stepping back in to say the path is clear, that they’re free to leave with the hostage and the man who had tortured Gaby, _their_ Gaby. He sees the man on the ground, bleeding out so quickly and heavily that he knows instantly Gaby absorbed every bit of their fight training. She’s stabbed him up between the ribs, internal organs ripe for the picking. And her fingers still clench the hilt of the knife even as Solo carefully takes it from her hands. 

—

Gaby stares down at the man, the sound of her blood pumping in her ears. The knife had gone through his side so easily, far easier than Gaby has ever imagined it. And when she twisted it, he’d coughed up, spewing a bit of his blood onto her face. She doesn’t even feel the knife taken from her, but she feels Napoleon’s hand on her wrist lightly.

It’s her first kill. 

It’s well deserved. 

It’s what she wanted.

It’s her vengeance.

And yet she instantly feels her soul collapse.

Gaby swallows the lump in her throat and allows Solo to pull her aside, away from the sight of the body at their feet. 

They shuffle through after Illya and she looks back at the other man, the one that they’d brought along.

“What about him?” she asks, speaking for the first time.

“Casualty,” Illya responds, voice cold and distant. He looks back and her and gently wipes a bit of blood from her cheek before letting her fall into a run between he and Solo. 

“Everything ready?” Solo asks and Illya simply nods. As soon as they’re a good distance away, hidden by the forest, Illya stops and slings his bag off of his shoulders. He removes a remote and presses a button and the noise that follows is the loudest Gaby’s ever heard in her life.

—

She sits in the back of the small plane, uncomfortable and craving a shower - some sense of normalcy. Through her headset she can hear Napoleon and Illya speak to Waverly and she closes her eyes, focusing on the voices.

“The man, Edvard Otto, he published a manifesto regarding his crooked politics. The defector Thomas Silas was his ex-partner, and apparently held all the secrets to their new world order. He got wind of Agent Teller in the city. A rich man like him had no problem hiring someone to abduct her,” Waverly says, his voice far too serious. “Speaking of Mr. Silas…”

“We lost him in the explosion. We lost _both_ of them,” Solo explains, voice soft and Gaby isn’t sure if it’s for her benefit or not. 

“Yes, well I’m sure UNCLE clean up will find no trace of them,” Waverly adds though there’s a heavy sigh to follow.

The conversation trails off then and Waverly wishes them a safe return, and she opens her eyes when she feels the seat shift beside her. Illya is there and the distance, no matter how small in the cramped plane, is noticeable.

“Are you cross with me?” she asks, the question intended for both of the men listening. 

Illya glances down at her and warily he places a hand on her knee. 

“Taking a life will change you,” he says. “You will never be same person. 

“You did the right thing, Gabs,” Napoleon adds, his voice rising over the static in her headset. He chances a look back at the two of them and smiles weakly before returning his attention to flying.

She nods and leans over, rests her head against Illya and his solid chest.

And for the first time in days she sleeps a dreamless sleep, except for the color red.

 


	3. The Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you ever write something that you just absolutely hate and you have to finish because it's the principle of the matter?   
> yeah - this is what i give you.  
> as always please alert me to any dire mistakes and i will fix them.

It’s a complicated process coming home, one that Gaby wasn’t fully prepared for. She expects to return to her flat and sleep until the rapture - instead she is ushered into UNCLE HQ without so much as a shower or fresh clothes. She’s set up in the pseudo-medical wing the office offers, wrapped up in Napoleon’s jacket while a nurse puts an IV in her arm for fluids. Numbly she sits through every poke or prod, nodding to questions here and there about her state. 

It feels like an eternity when she’s finally left alone. 

Gaby curls onto her side, wraps the suit jacket tighter around her soiled clothes and inhales the scene of Napoleon’s cologne.

She isn’t sure how much time has passed when she hears mumbled voices and sees shadows beneath her eyelids. Gaby wakes with a start, a scream quickly hushed on her tongue when she realizes it’s just Illya hovering over her. She sits on the edge of the bed, skin crawling and her heart racing and she can’t decipher if the look on Illya’s face is fear or hurt.

Gaby chooses to ignore it.

“How are you?”

She stretches and rights herself on the little examination table, looks up to the bag of fluid hanging and realizes it’s nearly empty.

“How long was I asleep?” she asks Illya and he waves his hand. She isn’t sure what that’s supposed to mean, but she takes it as he didn’t keep up with the time. “I’m fine,” she finally says, since he looks like he’s hanging on her words again. “The nurse said that other than a bit of dehydration and some scrapes I’m fine, Illya.” His name sounds harsher than she intends, but she is too tired to worry about it. 

He clears his throat and stands straighter and gives her a little nod. Thankfully the nurse from before returns to the room and Gaby doesn’t have to focus on the bit of awkwardness that has grown between them suddenly. 

“Waverly wants to speak with you,” Illya says, arms crossing along his broad chest. Gaby simply nods and watches the nurse remove the IV and bandage her arm.

—

The debriefing with Waverly is fine enough, if not for the two men hovering behind her. Gaby thinks that maybe she should be appreciative for them after everything they went through to find her. But instead she feels paranoid and worried and a whole onslaught of emotions she’s not exactly prepared for. 

She leaves Waverly’s office with a mandatory psych evaluation looming in the distance and time off for her ‘service’. Gaby clutches her fists together and stomps out, using the last reserves of her energy to leave Illya and Napoleon confused behind her.

—

It’s a week before Gaby takes up normal hours again instead of sleeping through the day and staying up all night. Napoleon suspects it’s because she likes to watch her back now, the paranoia creeping over her day by day. And even though her schedule seems back on track, she’s moved from the couch in the lounge to the smaller guest bedroom in the back of the flat. It’s cramped and tight Illya worries that three days suffering through whatever she did is enough to break someone who isn’t used to it.

They forget that she isn’t like them sometimes, no matter how hard she tries. 

—

It’s well after her passed evaluation that Gaby goes back into the field, despite a bumbling appeal from Illya to take more time off. Gaby’s tired of taking time off. She’s tired of mundane activities and paperwork and both of the men in her life walking on eggshells around her. While she doesn’t voice her annoyances, she knows that they come off clearly each time that she huffs and puffs and slams a door as she leaves a room. 

She thinks she’s ready. Knows that she is ready. 

When she fires a shot too early and gives away their position in a warehouse she curses loudly, already running to catch up with Napoleon and covering their asses as they slide across the tiled floor and out back where Illya waits with their getaway vehicle. His face is shocked, their cover is blown, and Gaby feels angrier than she’s ever felt before. 

She can hear Napoleon demanding to know what the hell happened back there and as a bullet ricochets off of the back of the car Gaby sinks lower into the backseat.

—

 

She’s drunk and angry and sitting on the small twin bed in the extra room listening to mumbling behind the closed door. It’s nearly one in the morning and she knows Illya and Napoleon think she’s been asleep since nine. She’d tried, laid in the bed and stared at the ceiling for hours. But her mind continued to tick away just as its does now. 

Despite being removed from the mission in Denmark for a well enough reason, she can’t help but be angry. She’s not said a word to anyone, especially not the two men out in the lounge, for three whole days. Instead, she’s gone about her routine as normally as possible. 

But with the addition of vodka she’s had stashed away in the nightstand, she’s transformed into a rather large ball of self-pity. And it only grows worse each time she hears her name from elsewhere in the flat.

She leaves the guest room in a hurry and comes to a stop in front of the two men, bent over a chess table and suddenly rather quiet.

“Stop talking about me,” she demands.

Her eyes narrow toward the two and Napoleon turns slowly to smile at her, a smirk that she absolutely despises right now. She can see the muscles in Illya’s jaw tense and she knows they’re trying to act as nonchalant as possible, despite being caught. “Thin walls. Loud voices,” Gaby adds, well aware that her words are slightly slurred thanks to the alcohol.

“We are playing chess,” Illya finally says, moving a piece as if to emphasize his statement. 

Gaby takes a few steps forward until she’s close enough to reach down and set her bottle of vodka in the middle of the chess board, upheaving a few of the pieces as she does so.

“Gaby…” Napoleon says, his voice low, and Gaby takes it almost as a warning.

“What? What are you going to do, hm?” she questions. She’s standing at her full height, chest puffed out and breath heavy, eyes alight. “Well?”

Illya turns to look at her then and what she sees breaks right through the veneer. She follows his eyes to Napoleon and swallows the courage that’s been building up in her throat. Suddenly, every bit of fight has left her and she’s overwhelmed by the two of them. Their eyes are soft - worried - and she knows that she has been cruel.

But what else can she be.

“There’s nothing wrong with me. You don’t have to whisper about me,” she restates, her own voice a whisper. She stares down at the carpet, a frown on her lips as she wraps her arms around her middle. 

“We know that, Gabs,” Napoleon says quietly, but it’s Illya who has stood up first. He approaches her easily, and Gaby realizes it’s far too similar to how she expects he’d approach a small animal - a thought she would laugh about in better circumstances. Illya touches her shoulder gently and she relaxes, each nerve that was so tightly coiled finally coming apart. Gaby turns and lets Illya pull her against his frame, large arms wrapping around her and pulling her close to his chest. She inhales his familiar scent and sighs, fingers clenching his hips and digging in for some sort of relief - something to keep her grounded.

“Nobody is ashamed of you,” Illya offers, and Gaby closes her eyes. 

“I am,” she says, voice still low. “I knew better. I made mistakes and I suffered the consequences. And I was weak.” She coughs out the last word, ashamed of even saying so. She wants to explain how every time she closes her eyes she sees the time she spent in that cement cell, or how she can feel the pain in the pit of her stomach even now. But she imagines that these two men know that well enough.

She feels Illya shake his head and tighten the hold he has on her. 

“Not weak,” he says, lips brushing the top of her head. “Human.”

Gaby feels the tears spring to the corners of her eyes and lets herself cry for the first time since she has returned. She allows the two of them to bring her into the bedroom she hasn’t slept in, in over a month, back to the bed she once enthusiastically shared. Gaby watches the two of them undress and she crawls higher on the spot in the middle of the bed, legs hugged against her chest as nightly routines are followed through. She doesn’t feel more human. She doesn’t feel like herself. Not yet.

But this is a beginning.

Illya takes a spot on the right and Napoleon on the left, their arms draped along her middle as she lays on her back between them. She stares at the ceiling, but her hands find theirs and she holds tightly. 

And when she closes her eyes she only sees black and for the first time in what feels like an eternity, she doesn’t dream.


End file.
